


Father vs. Dad

by McRaider



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Sheriff Stilinski Feels, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:58:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McRaider/pseuds/McRaider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John certainly didn’t consider himself the world’s best father, but he’d always thought he tried. Lately though, with lie after lie coming from Stiles, John was left to wonder where and when he’d gone wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father vs. Dad

**Author's Note:**

> I love the sheriff and Stiles, just completely. Unbeated

John sat in the living room, a picture of Claudia in his lap, and a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He wasn’t drunk, hadn’t been in years. He’d drank just enough to take the edge off his self inflicted misery. In truth he was drinking to figure out what the hell to do about his son. John certainly didn’t consider himself the world’s best father, but he’d always thought he tried. Lately though, with lie after lie coming from Stiles, John was left to wonder where and when he’d gone wrong. 

He heard the front door open and then close quietly, the soft footsteps of his normally hyperactive child seemed so much quieter than usual. John let out a sigh, he couldn’t quiet shake the feeling of failure knowing his son would seem the alcohol and disappointment would be reflected in his doe brown eyes. 

“Dad, I’m—” as John expected his son stopped short at the sight of his father and the whiskey bottle. But disappointment wasn’t written anywhere on his face, instead there was something else there. John watched his son’s breath quicken, his brows furrowed trying to understand what the hell was happening to his only child. 

_Stiles stopped short at the sight of the whiskey, his mind replaying the words from his vision earlier. His father, dressed in all black, completely wasted—or maybe he wasn’t, “It’s you, it’s all you. You know every day I saw her lying in that hospital slowly dying, I thought how the hell am I supposed to raise this stupid kid on my own? This hyperactive little bastard who keeps ruining my life. It’s all you. It’s you Stiles,” the boy’s name spat from his father’s lips. “You killed your mother, you hear me? You killed her, and now you’re killing me!” a moment later he hurled the whiskey bottle._

John watched his son go from relatively normal to hyperventilating to ducking instantly and crying out in gibberish. “Stiles?” John put the bottle and picture on the coffee table and moved towards his son. As he reached out to touch the boy, however, Stiles shrunk back, whispering and crying how sorry he was. 

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” John tried to soothe, “Stiles, talk to me son, I need you to breathe kid,” he took on his soothing tone, one he’d used hundreds of times during Stiles’ panic attacks or nightmares. 

He took in his son’s features, the boy’s clothes were damp, his cheeks rosy read, the boy was shaking, and John could smell alcohol on the boy. “Stiles, have you been drinking?” he asked. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles cried, still hyperventilating. “Please, please dad, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.” He cried. 

John assumed Stiles was talking about the alcohol, but even if he wasn’t, this was an unusual reaction. As the sheriff he was a bit wary at the thought of a sixteen year old drinking, but worried him more was his reactions, what if someone had drugged his son. “Stiles, did someone give you the drink, did someone hurt you?” 

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” he cried, and a moment later as if he was a child again, there was vomit everywhere. John grimaced, the smell not helping his own slightly tipsy state. Though the words Stiles said seriously concern hi, his first and main priority was his child’s well being. 

“It’s okay, come on kiddo,” he whispered, he started towards the boy again, this time Stiles let him come closer. 

“Daddy I don’t feel good,” Stiles whimpered. 

John nodded, he gently removed his son’s shirts, “Come on kid, lets get you upstairs to the shower,” he’d come back down and clean later, once Stiles was in the shower. “How much did you have to drink?” 

“A couple glasses,” Stiles mumbled, clearly feeling sorry for himself. 

John felt his concern hike up a notch; one drink shouldn't put his son in this confused state. Then his mind moved to his son’s Adderall, “When did you take your meds today, kid?” God he hoped that was all it was, if someone had roofied his kid he was going to start killing people. 

“Couple hours ago, before the party.” 

John sighed as they stepped into the bathroom, he made a mental note to talk to his kid about drinking and drugs and their interactions. “All right, strip, get in the shower. I’m going to go clean the mess downstairs. Can you shower without drowning?” 

Stiles looked down at his shoes and nodded, he was gripping his arms like he was cold, but John could feel the heat coming off the boy in waves. “I’m sorry dad.” 

John smiled sadly and just squeezed his son’s arm, “We’ll talk when you’re showered. I’ll meet you in your bedroom okay.” 

Ten minutes later his house was clean once more, John had changed into flannel pants and a t-shirt and found his son sitting on his bed in boxers and a t-shirt. His hair was still damp, his eyes red but his cheeks had returned to their normal brown and white instead of red and white. John studied his boy for a moment, Stiles tried so hard to be an adult, and hell half the time he took care of John, but he was still just a damn kid. He still needed his dad. 

John came into the room, sitting down on the bed across from his son and sighed, “What happened at the party, was this Lydia’s party?” 

Stiles nodded, “I really only had one drink dad, but I think someone spiked it with something more, please don’t bust anyone.” 

John held up his hand, “First off, not the sheriff so no worries there. Second, I’m asking as a concerned father, nothing more. Continue.” 

“I think everyone got some of it…I saw…things.” 

John could see whatever ‘things’ Stiles had seen bothered him a hell of a lot more than his father catching him coming home from a wild party where he got drunk. “Could you be a little more specific about things?”

“I saw…you,” he murmured something very quickly, and John paused. 

“One more time, slower and louder so your old man can hear you.” 

Stiles looked at him, the tears were back, dripping down his cheeks, “It was you…you were coming back from a funeral. You were drunk and you…you said some stuff.” 

John felt his heart ache that certainly explained the reaction Stiles’ had had to the whiskey bottle. He took a deep breath, concerned about what exactly he’d said in Stiles’ hallucination. “What did I say Stiles.” 

“Doesn't matter.” 

“Yes it does,” John replied calmly, “If you’re this upset about it, I think it really matters.” 

“You blamed me, for…for mom, said I killed her, and that I was…” Stiles took a deep shaky breath, trying to regain his composure, “said I was killing you too. You called me a stupid hyperactive little bastard…who was ruining your life.” 

John took in a sharp breath, well that certainly would hurt. “Shit,” John whispered. Did his son really think that’s how he felt? Chris he was a shit father if that was the case. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, clearly misunderstanding John’s silence. 

“What for?” John asked, his brow’s up in confusion, did Stiles really think all of that, oh god he needed to know. Eight years alone with just the two of them and clearly more had gone unsaid that should’ve. 

“Killing her…getting you fired, lying to you…being a general fuck up,” Stiles mumbled the last part. 

“Okay, let’s start there then. Stiles, look at me kiddo,” he waited until he had his son’s attention. “Your mother’s illness had absolutely nothing to do with you son. You have to know that, her brain was dying, and nothing you or I did would’ve changed that. She was going to die, no matter what we did. I’m just sorry you were alone there when it finally happened. I don’t blame you for her death, Stiles, not then, not now. Not ever, do you understand me?” 

Stiles looked desperate to believe him, but scared, “You didn’t ask to be stuck with me.” 

John laughed, “Uh, that’s where you’d be wrong,” John smiled, getting an idea, he had something he’d never shared with his son, perhaps it was time. “I’ll be right back.” John stood, headed to his and his wife’s room, grabbing an old photo album off the shelf in the corner of his room, he glanced at the first page, nodding to confirm it was the right one, then came back into Stiles’ room. 

“Here,” John sat down beside his son. 

“What’s this?” 

John grinned, “Just open it, I’ll explain.” 

Stiles gave him a look of confusion, before opening it, the first picture was very clearly a sonogram, one that clearly indicated the fetus was a boy. “Fifteen weeks,” John said, “Your mother and I had you planned, your mom desperately wanted a baby, didn’t care about the gender. But to be honest, I said a small prayer every night for a son.” He chuckled, “Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve loved a daughter, but…I wanted a little boy more than anything. This,” he pointed to the sonogram, “This was the best day of my life. Or so I thought.” He reached out, turning the page to reveal a picture of a tiny newborn cradled in a very overwhelmed and excited John Stilinski, who had quiet clearly been crying only minutes earlier. “Then you were born.” 

“I was little.” 

John laughed, “Yes, yes you were, and I was more than a little nervous I’d drop you or break you.” 

Stiles kept flipping through the pages, there were dozens of pictures, of John rocking him as a baby, holding him, feeding him, one hilarious picture of the two of them sitting side by side both equally covered from head to toe in spaghetti sauce each grinning. “I didn’t ask for your mother to die when you were so young, that part is true. I didn’t want to be a single father, but Stiles, I always wanted to be a father…a dad. My own father was, as you know, less than fantastic. I never wanted that for you. I know I’m not perfect, and I’m sorry that there have been days where you’ve done more caring for me than me of you. But kid, you’re my son. I love you, you could never ruin my life, even if you killed someone I would still come visit you in prison and still love my boy.” He reached out, pulling his boy close and pressing a kiss to his short peach fuzzed head. 

“Thanks,” Stiles murmured. 

“Are you okay?” John asked, looking at his son.

Stiles sighed, “I think so.”

John nodded, “Good, now, do we need to have a conversations about drinking?” 

“Sorry,” Stiles replied. 

John took a deep breath, “Look Stiles, you’re sixteen, I know you want to be an adult, but don’t rush it, it’s not as awesome as you think. You can have a drink when I’m not around and what I don’t know doesn’t hurt me, but don’t get arrested, and dear god please guard the damn drink. Last thing I want is to get a call about a date rape situation and it be my own son.” 

“Oh my god,” Stiles blushed. 

“Seriously though, kid. Sex is supposed to be special, don’t let someone take advantage of you because you weren’t paying attention, okay.” 

“Yeah, thanks dad, for…being my dad, and for showing me this,” Stiles handed it back but John pushed it away. 

“Put it somewhere safe, it’s yours now. Next time you think we aren’t okay, just look at it.” 

“Ok, thanks dad.” 

John smiled, “Love you kid.” 

“Love you too,” Stiles smiled in return, still flipping through the book as his father left the room.

The End


End file.
